


Let The Future In

by Elfbert



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-27
Updated: 2011-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Lestrade's life has shaped him into the man he is today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let The Future In

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ain't Seen the Sunshine (Since I Don't Know When)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/179127) by [emungere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emungere/pseuds/emungere). 



> This fic is linked to [John](http://boringlifeofjohnwatson.blogspot.com/) and [Lestrade's](http://interestingmurders.blogspot.com/) Blogs. It is set in a Universe where John is a Nanny to a 5 yr old Sherlock and 13 yr old Mycroft, and is in a relationship with DI Greg Lestrade.
> 
> This universe was created by Emungere.
> 
> It relates particularly to these blog posts: [Overtime, Over Worked, Over Here](http://interestingmurders.blogspot.com/2011/05/overtime-over-worked-over-here.html), [Dramatic Tadpoles](http://boringlifeofjohnwatson.blogspot.com/2011/05/dramatic-tadpoles.html) and [Dissolutions, Discord and Displeasure](http://interestingmurders.blogspot.com/2011/05/dissolutions-discord-and-displeasure.html).
> 
> WARNING: This fic contains description of domestic violence, including violence against children, and homophobic violence.

He didn't remember how it had started. It wasn't anything unusual. He'd been upstairs, in the room he shared with his sister. His Mum and Dad had been in the kitchen.

The shouting had been raging on for ages now. Enough time for him to use the rough wooden blocks to build a farm, and then drive his tractor around it a few times. A lonely cow with no tail watched from one of the 'fields', as Greg drove the tractor into a tower of blocks, bringing it crashing down with a satisfying noise.

A noise that woke baby Nichola.

She began a quiet grizzle, quickly escalating into a noisy cry. He stood, farm forgotten, and reached through the bars of the crib, stroking her chest, trying to make her hush. He would have given her a cuddle, but he couldn't reach over the high wooden sides. Her small face was red and her mouth wide open as she shrieked. He watched for a moment before turning and running out of the room. He headed into the kitchen, but stopped at the doorway.

His Dad was crowding into his Mum, pushing her back against the cupboards. She was shouting, and he raised his hand. Then her eyes locked onto Greg.

"Greggy, come here, come to Mummy," she said, pushing his Dad away from her, reaching down to him.

He obeyed. "Mummy, Nicky's crying again," he said, and he glanced up at his Dad, recognising the anger in his expression and not wanting to go near him. He hated it when his Dad was angry. And he was angry a lot.

"Fucking kid! She can wait," his Dad dragged his Mum up, away from him, by her clothing. Then he slapped her across the cheek, hard.

Greg froze, time froze, nothing moved. Then his Mum seemed to gain strength from the violence, and she shoved his Dad away. Greg moved too, pushing his Dad's thigh as hard as he could, away from them both.

The blow that hit him virtually lifted him off his feet. A wild backhander, and he stumbled, falling, hitting the side of his face hard on one of the cupboard door handles. He cried out, tears welling up, and curled up on the floor, arm over his face.

The shouting continued above him.

When his Mum finally picked him up she was crying, too. Her cheek was red, her hair a mess. She held him tightly and kissed him, then took him into the bathroom and held a cold flannel against his cheekbone. It stung, and he cried again. She did, too, and then knelt in front of him, wiping her tears away.

"If anybody asks you, Greggy, you must say you hit your face in the playground, okay? Say you fell over, and you hit your face. Okay?"

He stared at her. "Daddy…"

"I know. But we mustn't say that. It's important, Greggy. Will you do that for Mummy?"

He didn't answer. "You said we mustn't say a lie," he finally mumbled, confused.

"I know, I know," she hugged him tightly then, stroking his back. "But sometimes…sometimes we just have to. Because if we don't, then people will come and they'll take you and Nicky away. And we won't be able to see each other any more. You won't be able to see Mummy and Daddy; they'll take you away and give you to somebody else. So because of that, because of…I need you to tell this one little lie. Okay? Do you understand?"

He nodded. He definitely didn't want to lose his Mum. He needed her, but more than that, Nicky needed her. For everything. Nicky couldn't do anything at all without Mummy.

"Yes."

She had kissed him, and cut a strip of plaster for the cut on his cheek, then given him a chocolate biscuit for being brave. He didn't know where his Dad had gone, but he was glad that the small house was quiet again.

 

When Mrs Harris, from next door, had asked about his face he said had fallen over.

No one came to take him or Nicky away.

 

***

 

The noise was horrific. You didn't need to understand how it all worked to realise that the dragging, harsh wrench of sound wasn't a good thing.

Nor was the abrupt squeak of chair legs on the kitchen floor that followed. Or the heavy tread in the narrow hallway.

Greg abandoned the record player and leapt from the arm of the sofa, where he'd been balancing to try to play the song he loved. He was halfway across the floor when the door swung open.

He stopped, bare feet skidding slightly on the carpet, and looked up, eyes wide, at Dave.

"What're you doing, you little shit?"

He was grabbed by the collar and dragged back across the room, hands scrabbling at his school shirt where it bit into his neck.

There was no way out, but it didn't stop the reflex response.

"It weren't me." A futile lie, and he knew it.

It earned him no more than a glance as Dave moved the needle back from the vinyl, lifted the shining black disc up to the light and examined the scratch.

Greg couldn't help but watch, the brown and red label mocking him, blocking his view of the expression on Dave's face. 'Make Me Smile (Come Up And See Me)' said the sticker in the middle. Greg was pretty certain no one would be smiling for a while.

Dave slammed the record down, onto Greg's head, breaking it in half with a loud snap. He flinched away, from the action more than the pain.

"What have I told you about touching my fucking stuff?" Dave shouted, reaching down, grabbing Greg's shirt, shaking him. "What have I told you?"

"Not to," Greg mumbled. And he had been told, numerous times. But no one seemed to care that Dave had just turned up – moved into his house, messed up his stuff, taken all his Mum's attention. No one cared about that.

"Exactly!" The shaking stopped, but Greg's head was still spinning. "So don't fucking do it! You'll work to pay me back for that." It started as a wide gesture to the broken halves of the record, it ended with a stinging slap that snapped his head around and made his eyes water.

Then Dave knelt down, face close, breath that stank of beer and smoke wafting over Greg.

"And if you tell anyone, it won't just be you gets another slap. It'll be your Mum, too, right?"

He nodded, trying to pull away.

When she asked about the bruise, he told his Mum he'd fallen off the sofa.

She smiled fondly as she called him clumsy. Dave smiled too.

 

***

 

It was hot, even in the shade. He sat back, tipping the wicker chair up on two legs. A hand slapped his knee. "Piantala!"

"Sorry, Nonna," he muttered, allowing the chair legs to thud back onto the tiles. The elderly woman gave him a warning look, but didn't say anything.

People began moving, clearing away the plates; he started to help when a dry, wrinkled hand closed around his wrist. "Orio, non," she gave him a look that told him to sit down and stay still.

"I was just going to…"

She shook her head, so he stayed where he was and watched as Nicky helped their Nonno and two Great Aunts troop back indoors with the dirty dishes and left over food.

It was obviously planned.

"Orio," his Nonna said, sounding tired. He didn't mind the nickname, not the way people here said it, deep, rich vowel sounds, the 'r' rolled just slightly. "Stay. We must talk."

A minute later his Nonno returned, sitting heavily in his seat and pouring a little more wine for himself, then some wine and water for Greg.

"Your Father," his Nonno began, staring out across the parched valley, not looking at him. "He is…disappointing, to us."

They spoke good English, only hesitating sometimes for the correct word. He spoke good Italian, good enough to chat with them, but he still appreciated their effort to remember his language.

"They way he leave you, Nichola, your Mother. Is no good, no good. But…" there was an expressive shrug, a downturn of the corners of the old man's mouth under his grey moustache. "Is what life brings. And life brings us you, so we can have no argument."

Finally the watery brown eyes turned to him.

"But is important, molto – very – that you, you are more than this. You are a man, now. For your Mamma, and Nichola, is important you take care, you are the man of the house."

He nodded silently, unable to break eye contact. He didn't feel like a man – he was thirteen – fourteen this month, admittedly, but still…

"You, Orio, you must be more than he is, do not follow him in his ways. Be a good person, a good man. Never run, from your duty, never turn back on your family. Hold yourself proud, yes?"

He nodded again.

"One day, you will find a beautiful girl, and you must remember this – remember what he has done, and be better. Not…not follow his footprints. Love her, in marriage, is commitment, not to be…" the old man waved his hand. "Is serious. Not something to play in. But even then, never turn away from your Mamma, your brother and sister – they will always be needing you."

Greg swallowed, reaching for his drink and swallowing some down.

"And with us, never think because of him you must stay apart from us. We are family too. Be a better man than your Father, Orio. We know you are. No disappoint us."

"I won't," he said, voice small.

 

When they returned to England, after two weeks in the scorching Italian summer his Mum met them off the bus. She held them both tightly, hugging them to her.

That night, when she came back downstairs from putting Danny to bed she sat down heavily in the sitting room, a drink in her hand.

"Did you have a nice time?" she asked.

"It was fun – and really sunny," Nicky smiled.

Greg just nodded. He felt as if he'd gone on holiday a carefree child, and come back a man, with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Greggy?"

"Yeah," he agreed. "Everyone was very nice to us."

 

Later he helped his Mum up the stairs as she staggered slightly.

He wouldn't disappoint them, ever.

***

"Greg! Oh my God, Greg," Nicky pushed her fringe out of her eyes and grabbed his face, tilting it up. "We've got to get you home – Mr Goodacre said the next time you got in a fight you'd be expelled! Come on, come with me."

He had managed to get to his feet, and she had slipped her hand into his and dragged him towards home.

Their Mum was, mercifully, out. Nicky made him sit at the kitchen table while she got a bowl of water and a roll of kitchen towel. She washed the blood from his top lip and chin, turning the water pink, then dabbed at the graze on his cheek. He hissed and tried to turn away, but her small hand held onto his chin tightly. "Stop! I've got to get you cleaned up before Mum or Robert get back."

She did a good job, he had to admit. Only the graze was really visible, by the end. He knew his nose was tender, and two of his teeth loose, but by the time he showed his face again later that evening, when his Mum was busy trying to feed Rachel, Danny and Sam, she barely glanced at him.

 

"Why did they pick on you?" Nicky asked, when she'd silently tip-toed into his room later that night, careful not to wake Danny in the next bed. "Does it hurt a lot?"

"No, I'm fine. And they didn't. It was just a fight. Jake was slagging us off."

Nicky nodded, lips pursed. "Don't take any notice of him, Orio. He doesn't know nothing." She rarely used his nickname, not unless they were with their father's family. He knew she was trying to make him feel better, show sympathy.

He just nodded. He didn't tell her that Jake actually knew too much.

Jake didn't speak to him again. But he clearly spread the word around. Greg ended up avoiding school altogether. He didn't care about the fights, but he did care when his little brothers were picked on and called queer, just because everyone now knew he was.

He failed his exams – didn't even bother to turn up for some of them.

He told his Mum he wanted to leave, get a job.

He didn't tell her why.

 

***

 

Plenty of them had left school. He was the only one who'd left home. And he hadn't exactly got very far. He was torn. He could easily get up to Bristol – or his dream of London - doubtless find work. But that meant leaving his Mum and Nicky. And, ironically, the reason he had gone this far was the same reason that he didn't want to go further. Derek.

They'd hated each other from the start. At first, he'd just put up with it. And told his Mum she was mad to let him move in. She hardly knew the man, after all. She'd told him he was sweet, and kissed him on the cheek (even though she now had to stand on tip-toes to). Told him not to worry, that Derek was a nice man – and there weren't many who were willing to give her a chance, not with him and all his brothers and sisters. She told him he was a grown up now, and needed to stop acting like a child. He was nearly sixteen; it was silly to keep up with this childish dislike of anyone she brought home.

Part of him didn't want to argue. He knew his Mum was lonely, and as much as he tried to help her with everything from money to taking care of the kids, she wanted – and deserved – more. He wanted her to find a good man, settle down. He just knew Derek wasn't that man. But he couldn't argue that he was 'nice', when he wanted to be. The problem was that after he'd had a few pints, he didn't want to be.

 

It was Nicky who kept the link between them all. She'd wait for him to arrive back after she'd been at school, tell him the news as they walked back to the village. One week in three, when she said Derek was working lates, he would go back home and see them all, help cook dinner and check they had everything they needed. Find out how much of the housekeeping money Derek had drunk that month.

His Mum always asked him to come back. He always refused.

He always offered her money. She always refused too. But he'd give it to her anyway.

 

Then, one evening, they arrived back together, Nicky opening the back door, still talking, to see utter chaos in the kitchen.

Greg grabbed her arm, pulling her back, stepping inside – at first thinking they'd been burgled. But then a familiar sound was audible from another room.

Shouting.

"Nicks, find the kids," he said, mouth dry, heart hammering in his chest. "Make sure they're okay."

He knew only too well how scary it was, listening to a fight.

She nodded, a jerky movement. "Greg, don't…be careful. Okay? Be careful."

 

He pushed the door to the front room open just in time to see a picture frame narrowly miss his Mum's head. He didn't have time to think, he just acted. Threw himself into the room, catching Derek around the neck, from behind, dragging him down, bouncing off the coffee table on the way to the floor, and before he'd even hit the ground struggling to get back up, get his hands free. An elbow caught him hard in the stomach, so he just grabbed, fingers digging into Derek's face - one slipping obscenely into his mouth - and he kicked out, freeing one leg, wrapping it around, trying to lever himself up.

Teeth clamped around his finger, a hand tried to go for his bollocks, so he twisted, shouting out a curse as he ripped his hand away, not caring that the teeth ripped through his skin. Then the fight was on in earnest.

Derek easily had the weight advantage, but Greg was strong, and fast. Derek was pissed, his movements uncoordinated, sluggish. When he made contact it hurt, but when he didn't Greg made him pay for it. He'd been in fights before, but this wasn't just about defending himself. This time he really wanted to hurt.

Finally, panting, bleeding, struggling to find his feet, he stood, and wrapped his fist in the front of Derek's shirtfront. He could hear his Mum crying, shouting at him, and he didn't listen. He dragged the man, falling over as he tried to move his bulk, but he didn't care.

They fought another three times before he finally reached the front door, shoving the man out onto the concrete step, and standing over him, shaking from the effort and the emotion.

 

The next day he was holding Sammy, trying to cook dinner for all of them, and persuade Nicky to check on their Mum - last seen virtually unconscious in her bedroom, but still swigging cheap cider from the bottle - when the doorbell rang.

He answered it, Sammy propped on his hip, pulling his hair.

"Ah, hello, we're here to see Mrs Weaver."

Greg didn't need to read the ID being held out to him. You could tell Social Services a mile off.

"She ain't in. Gone to see a friend. Don't know when she'll be back." He moved to close the door.

"We had a report, of a fight at this address. We need to ensure the children here are safe." The woman edged towards the door. He knew she was taking in every cut and bruise on his face, and he hated it.

"They're fine. You'll have to come back when she's in. I ain't got time to talk to you now," Greg did shut the door that time, and he could feel himself shaking again from the stress – from the fear.

"Mummy is here," Rachel said, appearing next to him, obviously having heard the entire conversation. "You lied." The tone was accusatory.

"Far as they know, she ain't. Sometimes you got to tell a little lie, when it doesn't matter. You don't want to have to get Mum out of bed do you? Down here to talk to them? They'd see the state she was in and they'd take you all away to live in a home for kids with no parents, right? And you'd never see her again. So sometimes, you got to tell a lie."

He'd believed it, all those years ago. And the way Rachel's face crumpled into tears, she clearly did too.

He leant down, still holding Sammy on one arm, and hugged her close. "But they've gone now, and we're fine. So don't worry, okay? Don't worry about nothing."

He stayed in the house for a month after that.

Derek came back twice.

Greg fought for his life. For all their lives. And when he wasn't physically fighting Derek he was fighting to keep everyone going. Getting the kids to school, making sure there was something to eat every night, trying to get their Mum up and out of bed and washed, no matter how drunk or hung-over she was. Fighting to keep Social Services from their door.

After the second time, when Nicky had settled the younger children she came back downstairs and found some ice to wrap in a tea towel for his hand.

"You don't have to do this," she said, quietly, not meeting his gaze. "It's not your job to protect us."

He gave a small smile, making the split in his lip ooze.

"Yes, it is," he answered. "Always will be. Got to stick together, Nicks. We're stronger together."

 

"Greg," his Mum said, as he forced her to eat some dinner, late at night. "How's school?"

He looked at her, wondering if he was doing the right thing, keeping Nicky, Danny, Rachel and Sam out of the clutches of the authorities. Sometimes he really questioned himself. Not that he would ever tell anyone. What else had she missed though? Where had she thought the money keeping the house running was coming from? Maybe they would all be better off with people who didn't spend weeks on end too drunk to notice what was happening around them. Maybe there would be some nice people out there, willing to take all four of them.

Probably not, though.

"Fine, Mum," he answered. It was the lie that slipped most easily from his lips. 'Fine' was all he ever was these days, if anyone chose to ask.

 

***

 

The music consumed him. The sounds, the smells, the sweat and the beat. He loved it all. A million miles away from the sleepy village on the outskirts of town, where the only entertainment was barn dances and summer fetes.

Somebody moved behind him, dancing close, and he turned, smiling. The young man was attractive enough - blond, blue eyed, bare chested. Greg kept moving to the beat, letting the crowds on the dance floor push them together. And when the man leaned in for a kiss Greg responded, happily.

After a few songs the man gestured to the bar and leant close to Greg's ear. "Want one?"

Greg nodded, and took the offered hand to be led through the mass of people.

They both drank their pints too fast, eyes never leaving each other, and the sexual energy in the air meant Greg was already half hard in his jeans. He knew it hadn't gone unnoticed.

The air outside was chill, and after a quick glance up and down the road it seemed natural to push his companion into the nearby alleyway, press him back against the wall and kiss him. He wasn't surprised when a hand began pressing against his groin, fumbling for his fly and belt.

"Here?" he asked, lips barely leaving the other man's.

"Got somewhere better?"

Greg hadn't. If anyone at the section house ever found out which way his preferences ran he'd probably be forced out of the Met. He'd certainly lose a lot of friends.

There was no warning. Just a sudden blow to the side of his head. Then the two of them were descended on, punched and kicked. There was barely a chance to fight back; all he could do was try to protect his head, groin and stomach.

The gang had obviously been waiting for an opportunity. They laughed and threw homophobic abuse at the two of them. Somehow Greg's hand found his new companion and he clung on, trying to drag himself to the man, to protect him.

He didn't know what spooked the gang, but they abruptly left, and he rested his head on the cobbles, panting.

"Fuck," the man coughed.

Greg couldn't help but smile. The one expletive just about summed it up. He could taste blood, feel it running down his cheek. His lips were fat, his back aching, and he couldn't move one hand. He pushed himself to sitting, managing to lean over the other man.

"You okay? I mean…need help?"

"Fuck." He moved, finally, and Greg almost let out a sigh of relief. "We should call the fucking police. Fucking bastards."

"No," the word was out before he could stop it.

"No?"

"I mean…I don't want the police involved," he said, dropping his head forward, not wanting to meet the wide eyes of his injured companion.

"You what? After they…fucking hell, why not?"

Greg didn't answer.

"I know the police can be fucking cunts, but you can't just let people like that get away with it. What's the matter with you? Some sort of fucking coward? Huh? Jesus."

"No, it's…it's not…I just don't want to speak to the police. I don't…" there was no way he could explain it, apart from tell the truth. And there was no way he could do that.

"Right, great. Just let them fucking get away with it, and when they kill someone, I hope you realise what you've done."

He walked away, limping, leaving Greg on the floor, slumped next to a bin.

He was a coward, he knew it. Just not for the reason the man thought.

 

He told everyone at work that he'd been caught up in trying to stop a pub brawl. He knew his sergeant didn't believe him, and somehow he didn't care.

He wondered when it had become so easy to lie about so many aspects of his life.

 

***

 

He shrugged out of his suit jacket, knackered after a long day. Then kicked his shoes off and padded through the flat, expecting to find Bryan in the 'studio' – the tiny box room where he had set up his work. But Bryan was nowhere to be seen.

He sighed, and headed into the kitchen, stopping dead when he saw the mess. He had hoped that Bryan might have found time to clean up. That was generally the deal – he'd cook, Bryan would wash up. Well, it had been the deal once.

Finding a clean plate he made himself a sandwich and watched the news, then washed everything up, cleaning the whole kitchen, waiting, hoping, for the sound of Bryan's key in the door. When it didn't come, he finally headed to bed, knowing he had another twelve hour shift the next day, which included a court appearance.

It was the early hours before the door banged open, making him jump awake. He lay in silence, his heart pounding from the shock. He listened to the noises – the pipes gurgling, the scuff and thump as Bryan stumbled through the small flat. Then the light flicked on, blinding him.

"Bry!" he protested.

"Mmmmm," the mattress dipped behind him, and Bryan leant on him, stinking of smoke and alcohol. A sloppy kiss was planted on his ear.

"'M trying to sleep, Bry," he mumbled, closing his eyes again, trying to tug the cover over his face to cut out the light.

A hand slid under the cover, finding his waist and then his arse, fingers digging in.

"C'mon, Greg. Been out dancing all night, wanted to come home and, y'know," Bryan's hand slid around his hip to his groin.

"Bry, 'm knackered, I've got court in the morning," he said, half-heartedly, into the duvet.

"Fuck court," Bryan pushed the cover off, exposing Greg to the chill air of the flat. "What happened to you? Getting old and bloody boring, Greg."

He turned over, looking up at Bryan, and could see the wide pupils, the flushed, slightly sweaty skin.

He already knew what the outcome of any argument would be, and he really did need the sleep.

"Come here," he said, reaching for a kiss, sliding his hand over Bryan's chest.

Ten minutes later Bryan's hands were buried in his hair, his cock down Greg's throat. He let Bryan set the rhythm; let him do whatever he wanted. It was faster that way.

Half an hour later he stubbed out his second cigarette and glanced back at the snoring, drooling man in his - their - bed. The sleep he'd so desperately wanted now seemed impossible.

He told himself it was fine, he'd wanted to do it.

He hadn't said 'no'.

 

***

 

He didn't remember how it had started. It wasn't anything unusual.

Bryan yelled at him about being boring, working all the time, never spending any time together and caring more about criminals than about him - his husband.

He yelled back about not working at all, going out until all hours, being irresponsible with money and caring more about his so-called mates than about their marriage.

Somehow, despite all the signs, and the fact Bryan was drunk, he'd never expected the first blow. The wild punch that caught him on the side of the head and made his ears ring. He froze, time froze, nothing moved.

Then Bryan was on him, still trying to punch and kick.

He ended up putting him in an arm lock on the kitchen floor and sitting it out, slowly relaxing his hold until Bryan was asleep or unconscious, instead of struggling.

They didn't talk for days.

 

The second time Bryan threw a plate at him. It had contained his dinner. Hours ago it had been hot, now it was a congealed mess, running down the wall. A glass followed, then some cutlery. He fended them off, the heavy tumbler catching him on the wrist.

Looking back, it should have told him a lot that he was more worried about the Shepherd's Pie running down the wall than the state of his marriage.

The cycle continued. Arguments, usually when Bryan was drunk or high. Fights – one sided, always. His inevitable forgiveness, because Bryan always asked. Sex he didn't want, to re-affirm their love for one another. Lies at work about punch ups and accidents.

It wasn't domestic abuse. He'd attended hundreds of call outs when he was a PC, to abused wives and cowering kids. He'd pitied them, and he'd wondered why they didn't just do something – get out. It didn't happen to people like him. Not to police officers, not to men, not to him, God dammit. Not to him. Because he'd pitied his Mum, too, and he'd occasionally hated her for being weak. And he wasn't weak. He was strong, and he could take whatever Bryan threw at him. They were just fighting. It's what blokes did, down the pub, in the street, in their living room - it was just fighting, not abuse.

He told himself all of that, and sometimes, he almost believed it. Because he was a good liar.

He'd had a lot of practice.

 

***

 

His cheeks itched with dried tears. There was a draught coming in under the door, chilling his lower back where he was slumped back against it.

The phone in his jacket pocket beeped again.

He finally pulled it out, hands still shaking, and looked down at the too-bright screen.

'Missed calls – 9  
Text messages – 5  
Emails – 19'

John Watson. John Watson. John H D Watson.

His fingers missed the button the first time, but he managed to reach the screen with the blinking cursor, the empty box under the messages of worry – from John, from others. People he didn't even know, scattered around the world.

'Sorry. I'm okay.' He typed slowly. The lie was his oldest, most used. It came easily.

And it wasn't what John deserved. Wasn't what any of them deserved.

He looked at the screen. There it was, already posted for all to see. The calming salve. Surely it was all that was needed. They could all stop worrying now.

Except they wouldn't. John wouldn't. Nine calls, five messages and seven comments told him that much.

He typed again. 'I'm not okay. Bryan was here.'

It said nothing, but at the same time, it said everything.

Because John deserved more than lies. Their relationship was worth more.

He hit 'post comment'. And waited.

 

~Fin


End file.
